Genonn lay among the piles of hides, staring through the smoke hole at the starry sky. The execution was to be at dawn. He had heard men talking of the ugliness of executions, the bulging eyes, lolling tongue, bowel and bladder release, and he was not anticipating the experience with anything other than dread. Something told him that watching a man’s eyes bulge so far that, on occasion, they popped out of their sockets would not be a pleasant experience. He could not clear his mind from thoughts of a baton twirling and the knotted leather thong tightening.

He thought the images would keep him from sleep, but...

Genonn’s eyes flew open.

Someone was on the bed, a thigh beside his cheek. There was a hand trying to suffocate him, pressing down firmly on his mouth. Trying to keep his wakefulness from his attacker, he tried to find his stave beside the cot with a groping hand. It was futile. His fingers found nothing but the dirt of the roundhouse floor.

I am going to die.

The thought caused him to start bucking to get them off. Rather than falling, he felt his assailant lean close to his ear. There was a softness to the hair brushing his face. And now fully awake, he could feel the palm, although roughened, was not pressing hard. Nor was it covering his nose, appearing to be more of a warning than a threat. His heartbeat slowed, and his breath became less fraught.

“I’m Áine,” a voice whispered. “I mean you no harm. I will let you go. Do not call out.”

Genonn nodded. “I have your oath?”

He nodded again and listened to her bustling about as he sat up. A tinder sparked, and then the torch in the brazier beside the cot flared. Áine came and sat beside him, placed her hands in her lap, and looked at him grimly. She had doubts about her chosen course. A course that brought her to a stranger’s bed beyond the witching hour.

At least, I think it is beyond.

“What hour is it?” Genonn asked to gain time to think.

“It’s halfway between the witching hour and dawn, so it is,” she said softly. Her eyes were still grim, pleading—he knew not what.

“How can I help you, Áine?”

As she gathered her thoughts, Genonn watched. She was not a beautiful woman. Her face was comely but not striking. She had rough hands and broken nails from hard work. However, her stunning eyes were a striking sea-green color.

Were she not so worried, they would be dancing with mischief.

“The man in the blockhouse, Donncha, he’s my man, so he is.”

With the words came the realization of what caused her to seek him out. She seeks an ally—a man of power to prevent the inevitable. Only, she was mistaken in her assessment of his ability and authority.

“I cannot—”

“He didn’t do it, Lord,” Áine interrupted. “Mathaman wants me, so he does. He’s to get rid of Donncha before he can have me. Promised the smith only the Sidhe know what, to make false testimony.”

“You know this how?”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“Donncha was with me. We were... well, you know what we were at,” she said, blushing. “The smith says he saw him carrying a sheep through the forest, but he can’t have been. He was with me, so he was.”

“I am not sure how I can help you,” Genonn said, adopting his most practiced sympathetic look. Even if her suspicions were true, he knew there was little he could do. Genonn was in the ráth as an advisor; Mathaman had the power of life and death over his subjects.

He could order my death as easily as he ordered that of Donncha, he thought, remembering the expression on the chieftain’s face. Glee.

He shook his head and tilted it, exaggerating his sympathy, hoping she would understand. He begged the Tuatha to make her realize the futility of her request.

Áine said nothing, just stood and shrugged off her robe. She was naked beneath. Shadows dancing over her curves put arousal beyond Genonn’s youth to prevent. He tried not to look, but his eyes were drawn constantly to her shapely breasts, lithe and long legs, the vee below her abdomen, hidden in slightly deeper shadow, with red curls dancing to the brazier light. Despite her homely face, he could see what had attracted the barrel with legs.

“Your yearning is my instruction, Lord, so it is.”

“My yearning is for you to put your robe back on.”

Are you mad? She offers herself to you, and you tell her to get dressed.

“I think your cock disagrees with you, Lord,” she said, nodding at the little peak that had appeared under the hides.

Genonn felt a blush flash from his neck to above his ears. He could feel his arousal but had not realized how visible it was.

“I do not know what to say,” he said. “You are so beautiful. But I cannot take advantage of you. It would betray my oath.”

“No one’ll know, so they won’t,” Áine said, as she sat and pulled the hides off, exposing the source of Genonn’s embarrassment.

Rather than swallow his misgivings and allow her to continue—she was right, no one else would know—he lifted her hand and placed it gently in her naked lap.

I will know. What are you doing? No. I swore I would protect the people, not take advantage of them.

Despite being aware that most druids would not care about their oath, Genonn could not forsake it, considering himself a man of principle. Undeterred, she grabbed his member and began to manipulate it with a practiced hand.

Taking her wrist, he shook his head and said, “I cannot, Áine. I am sorry.”

A tear broke from the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek. Watching her bend over and retrieve her gown, Genonn felt a momentary loss and wondered if he was doing the right thing. He could not think of any way around her predicament. If he took her in the pile of hides, he would still be unable to save her man, and doing so could only be considered an act of pure malice.

The girl stopped at the roundhouse door and looked back over her shoulder as she said, “My Donncha’s going to die, so he is,” the tone accusatory. “All because you are too cowardly to stand up to the brute.”

Genonn opened his mouth to deny it, but she was gone.

He did not return to sleep but lay in the hides, looking at the sky through the smoke hole. The beauty of the stars had gone, hidden by clouds.

When the grey began to creep into the roundhouse, he dressed and went to the central square in front of the blockhouse. There was a drizzle of rain, the sort that soaks through robes and leaves everyone uncomfortable. A small crowd had already gathered. They were subdued. Heads down. Genonn could see the woodsman was a popular member of the community. He could also see the glowers the people gave him as he passed. Despite Áine saying no one would know, they all knew what had happened in the night.

Soon after he arrived, the four guards led Donncha out of the blockhouse. He was not struggling, resigned to whatever the Three Sisters had planned for his future. The guards forced him to kneel in the dirt before two of them went and stood on either side of the oak doors.

Genonn frowned as the barrel walked out onto the stairs. If anything, his glee had grown during the night. He stood and glowered at his subjects before raising his hands as if to quell a noise, which was not there. Had the moment not been so somber, Genonn would have laughed at the idiocy of the gesture. Instead, he watched the crowd. Their heads were down. All except one. A cowl covered her, protection from the rain, but he could still see the sea-green eyes staring at him, the same accusation as when she left the roundhouse.

Arms still raised, Mathaman said, “Donncha the woodsman has been tried and found guilty of sheep stealing by the testimony of the smith—”

Unsure of his motivation, Genonn interrupted the chieftain, “You will not do this thing,” he said, gripping his stave with whitened knuckles, chin jutting.